


Waltz of the Snowflakes

by Midori_Aidoru



Series: Waltz of the Snowflakes [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3686352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midori_Aidoru/pseuds/Midori_Aidoru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective James Gordon's world is unraveling thread by thread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim’s mother used to knit when he was very small; socks, scarves, the occasional embarrassing holiday sweater. She was quite prolific, and the delicate clicking of her needles were a kind of meditation for her. And him. The clinking of the ice cubes in his bourbon brings him back to that time, although equating his drink to his mother is hollow, and a little wrong if he thinks about it too much. He doesn’t.

Leslie – no, _Lee,_ he kicks himself – had left about an hour ago. As much as she tries, he knows she’s not happy with his current, meagre accommodations. The fact that he only has a single bed really doesn’t help, though she’d tried weakly to protest to him before that it’s “cosy”. He snorts a bitter laugh at it, because it’s barely more than a crappy frame and a thin mattress, _barely_ more comfort than what he was afforded in the army. Real comfort is her warm, welcoming apartment. Real comfort is even Barbara’s palatial clock tower penthouse. Not this. Never this.

He likes Lee, he really does. She’s strong, smart, forthright. Something Barbara never really was. But he’s beginning to think her taking the job at the GCPD was a mistake for their blossoming relationship. Mixing romance and work doesn’t gel with him at all, and the fact he’s had to pull her up on it several times now is beginning to grate on his nerves. There’s just something... off about their relationship at the moment. He’s trying not to dwell on it, and as he takes another sip of smooth, chilled whiskey, his train of thought moves to Barbara.

Beautiful, blonde, comfortable Barbara. With all the neuroses that come from being a neglected rich kid. He’d always cleverly ignored the heavy drinking, the casual drug use. When she was on form, she was perfect in every way. But her flaws made her feel real; he’d soothe her pain with soft words, the promise of masculine protection, and incredible, passionate sex. But even then, after everything he’d tried to do to keep her safe, he’d failed. And failed miserably at that.

Which brings his thoughts full circle back to his mother’s knitting. You see there is a small, carefully crafted knitted square floating in the very back of his subconscious. No colour to it, just a test piece if you will. His mother’s fingerprints are all over it, but there’s something not quite right. Along the bottom is a loose thread, like an irritating hangnail, like something that needs sanded down. It rarely bothers him, but lately someone else has reached through and has been teasing that thread, threatening it to unravel. It’s something Jim has buried so deep that he’d thought it was gone completely.

He stands, goes to the window and stares out in an attempt to clear his head. It’s not working. Fresh air it is then, he convinces himself. He gulps down the last dregs of his drink, thumps the empty glass down heavily on the counter and grabs his coat on the way out. The snowy Gotham night awaits.

********

The club may be quiet now, but the sound of the hollow aluminium bat across his shoulder blades is anything but. The clanging echo drowns out the sickly-sweet sounds of _The Nutcracker_ that his mother had left playing on the ancient phonograph before Gabe took her home, leaving only harsh static ringing in his ears. Maybe he does deserve this; a little reminder that yet again he’s been getting too big for those beautifully pointed, well-crafted shoes he’s wearing.

Another blow, this time against his spine, and he buckles just a little. He’d laugh in their faces, but he knows they’re only toying with him, playing out Maroni’s frustrations in a rather pathetic parody. That fucker’s not ever here! Oswald feels offended that this puppet show is happening without its intended audience, but he sucks it up nonetheless, smiles sweetly at his aggressors with crimson-stained teeth. Besides, the bat is Fish’s weapon of choice. It’s all been done before.

A heavy crack to the back of his thighs has him sprawling face-first on the floor, coughing and grimacing at the taste of his own blood on the recently cleaned carpet. Ugh, again? Blood is such a bitch to clean. This wouldn’t have happened if he’s been quicker; if that tall, ugly one hadn’t repeatedly caught him across the face with meaty fists minutes earlier.

There’s murmuring above him; tempered laughter and hissed whispers for a moment. Then silence. Oswald tries to kid himself they might be finished, but there’s no way that could be true. Not yet. Inevitably, he’s proved right.

It’s aimed perfectly; square across the back of his right knee. He can’t keep the agonised scream inside this time, the pain wending its way up his thigh and back and into his brain, creeping like acid along his nerves. Instinctively he curls in to a whimpering ball, eyes squeezed closed hard enough to force out a single tear that runs down his cheek and pools against the corner of his swollen, bloody mouth.

He’s only vaguely aware that one of them is behind him now, bent down close to his head and giggling like an idiot. He manages to crack open an eye and catches a glint of silver before his head is wrenched back, thick fingers in his black hair, pulling at the roots. A knife is at his throat, pressing hard enough to break a long line of skin. Oswald attempts to plaster on his trademark grin, nerves making him swallow unconsciously, the blade carving just that little bit deeper.

“Listen up, _Penguin_! Don Maroni sends his warmest regards. Oh yeah, and he also says if you try and pull shit like that again, he’ll come by and personally serve up your little snitch head on a platter to Falcone. I’ve heard he’s an excellent butcher in his spare time.”

Oswald swallows again, wincing at both the mistake and the thousand ways his frail body hurts right now. “I-I can assure you fine gentlemen that I _hnn_...had no involvement in the sting at the warehouse! If you had done your research, you would know it was s-someone else entirely.”

There's chuckling from above, but somehow Oswald manages to keep his face straight. That, and the fact most of it is numb.

“Yeah, someone else connected with this club. _Your club_ , am I right? Don’t be so fuckin’ obtuse, Cobblepot. It all falls on your shoulders.”

There’s a sudden commotion at the door, and a foot connects to his stomach; a final good-will gesture from Maroni’s men, and it’s hard enough to force him both back into a ball and the air out of his lungs. The knife slices neatly across his collarbone as the guy behind him clumsily moves to get up and Oswald hisses loudly at the sting. He’s left, a twisted mess on the stained carpet, gasping in his winded state.

He can hear Gabe’s voice now, low and aggressive. There are some raised voices, the door slamming, then... nothing. The quiet descends once again. Only the tinny strains of Tchaikovsky and his own wheezing breaths settle into the surroundings.

********

Jim wanders aimlessly for a while, kicking at the slush with his well-worn boots. Collar up against fresh flurries of snow, hands shoved deep into wool pockets, his feet aren’t cold enough to make him stop yet. He passes by the gaudy neon lights of Chinatown with not much thought to his own safety; little eateries and hole-in-the-wall bars doing a brisk business on this night. In fact, no one even seems to give him a second glance, something he’s entirely grateful for.

And so, as Jim trudges forward he finds himself outside a fairly nondescript building in a back street off the main strip. The only identifying feature of it is a violet-coloured neon umbrella by the door. Looking at it makes Jim’s eyes hurt. He has no idea why he’s here, especially at this time of night, and he’s about to walk straight past when the door bursts open almost hard enough to rip the hinges off. Four burly men are shoved out in quick succession, complaining loudly and followed by Cobblepot’s stout rent-a-goon. Gabe, is it? Yeah, that’s him. Jim’s hand automatically moves to his hip out of habit, though he doesn't have his gun on him. Heated words are exchanged before they prowl away down the alley by the fire escape. Gabe takes a good long look around, and Jim curses as he’s spotted. _Fuck_.

Gabe beckons him over, and Jim is rooted to the spot for a moment, his brain searching for an escape route. The beckoning continues, more insistent now and Jim’s stomach drops. Warily, he slinks across the road, keeping a safe distance from the hulking brute. Gabe says nothing, just holds open the door and Jim reluctantly enters. The door slams closed behind him, making him jump to his dismay, and Gabe ushers him into the main room, past the empty bar.

The unmistakable tang of iron is what hits him first; he’s smelled enough of it in his time to know it before he even sees red. On the floor at his feet is what appears to be a crumpled heap of clothing, albeit shaking slightly. It only takes a moment to put two and two together and come up Cobblepot.

Jim kneels down, reaches out and gently rolls over the shivering figure. Oswald squeaks in pain; a quiet, strangled sound, as though he’s trying to keep it in to save face, and Jim’s eyes widen at the not-so-pretty sight. His lip is swollen and split, nose still bleeding and eye sockets rapidly starting to resemble that of a panda. There are several gashes at his neck and throat, shallow it seems, but oozing blood into his once white shirt. And that’s just what’s visible.

Oswald panics and scrabbles at the floor, trying to drag himself away when he realises it’s not Gabe. Jim almost has to hold him down, but when his eyes finally focus he exhales in surprise.

“Jim?! W-what are y-”

“What happened? Who did this?” Jim’s gruff voice cuts him off, underlain with simmering frustration.

Oswald splutters, “It... It’s nothing, just a momentary setback. A minor a-altercation I can assure you!”

“That’s _not_ what I asked!”

To the point, as always. Oswald just shakes his head as best he can. Jim looks away, disgusted, aiming his gaze instead at the silent giant.

“There anywhere to clean him up?”

“Boss’ private rooms are upstairs.”

_Well that’s just great_. “Is there an elevator?”

The big man doesn’t say anything. Instead he sidesteps Jim completely, swooping down and scooping Oswald’s limp body up in his arms like he weighs nothing. He turns, surprisingly light on his heels, and heads for the stairs. Jim’s about to follow when Gabe speaks again.

“First Aid kit’s in the kitchen.” He nods to his right.

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He’s in half a mind to just leave, let the big lug deal with it. It’s that odd, tugging feeling in the back of his mind that has his feet moving for the kitchen door before he’s even conscious of it. He swings the door open, grabs the kit on the wall and makes his way back through the club and up the stairs, but not before he has the presence of mind to pick up an ice bucket from the bar on the way past. Walking up the stairs and to the left, he follows Gabe until he ducks into a doorway. Jim reluctantly does the same.

The large room is modestly furnished; a king sized bed in the corner, a desk, a drinks cabinet, and a few comfy looking chairs by a mock fireplace to his right. Beyond that is a spacious looking en-suite. The décor seems a little too modern for Oswald’s seemingly bizarre tastes, although Jim quickly realises he’s probably not gotten around to redecorating up here yet.

Oswald get put down and left to perch gingerly on the end of the bed. Gabe steps aside and lets Jim get closer as Oswald waves a hand stiffly.

“You may go now Gabriel. I won’t need your services for the rest of the night.”

“Boss, are you s-”

“Just... Make sure the place is locked up. Wait by the front door and let Detective Gordon out when he leaves.”

Oswald sighs heavily and Gabe leaves without another word. There’s an awkward silence as the door clicks shut, both of them staring at the floor. Jim manages to wrestle away the surrealness of the situation long enough to pipe up.

“Can you get your jacket and shirt off?”

“I think so, yes.” Oswald answers weakly.

“OK, good,” Jim clasps his hands together. “Lemme get some things from the bathroom.”

Oswald starts struggling with his clothes and Jim heads for the bathroom. It’s spotlessly clean. There’s a large tub and an even larger shower, and the floor and walls are decorated in bottle green and white tiles. Jim grabs some towels and damps one down in the sink. When he exits, he's presented with a thin, bare-chested Oswald, staring at the floor and slumped uncomfortably. The blood from his nose and mouth is congealing with the fresh blood at his throat that still trickles slowly down his surprisingly hairless chest. Jim sucks in a deep breath and looks away, taking his coat off and hanging it over the back of one of the chairs.

He sits carefully next to Oswald and inspects the damage. Most of it is superficial, but painful; large welts across his back and shoulders, blooming into spectacular blue and purple bruising. The cuts at his throat aren't as bad they look, apart from the one on his collarbone, which is too deep and awkward to close without a stitch or two. That's going to be a problem. Jim gives a towel over and instructs Oswald to put pressure on his neck for now. Another he fills with ice and ties the corners. He'll need it later.

It's the older, faded scars Jim spots that get his attention. Here and there are raised, knotted marks even paler than Oswald's sallow complexion. Some are clearly knife wounds, but others are spidery, almost like burns. Jim knows all too well what a city like Gotham can do to a person. He starts to realise why Oswald might be like he is, to sympathise even, but he also knows he can't ever use that as an excuse to forgive him for what he's done in the past, or what he will almost certainly do in the future. Jim focusses on the narrow here and now, and opens the First Aid kit.

Oswald flinches a little at the sting as Jim starts cleaning up his face, and Jim finds himself grabbing his arm to keep him still. He's so cold that part of Jim just wants to sit there and warm him up, but he shakes off the thought and continues. He removes most of the blood from his face, treats the grazes on his cheek and his split lip, and exchanges the towel at his throat for the makeshift icepack, telling him to hold it to his jaw while he gets a better look at the cuts.

“This is probably a stupid question, but you don't have a sewing kit, do you?”

Oswald won't meet his eyes, but quietly answers, “My mother... She gave me one, just in case. S-she always says I should look my best. I've never used it. It's in the cabinet.”

Jim gets up and goes to the drinks cabinet, opens it and picks up the sewing kit and a small bottle of vodka. It's a quick and dirty solution but it'll have to do. He's stitched before in the army, and this isn't any different. That's what he tells himself at least.

“Lie down,” he instructs. “This is going to hurt, but I'm pretty sure you won't go to any hospital, so...”

“It's fine, I've had worse,” Oswald asserts, laying back on the bed with some difficulty. Jim tries not to think about what that could mean, and definitely doesn't help him swing his twisted leg up onto the bed. He douses the needle and thread in the vodka, then pours some over the wound. Oswald grits his teeth against the pain, sucking in a breath and holding it as Jim digs the needle into his flesh.

Jim manages to sew him up with some skill considering his hands are shaking. Four neat stitches are what he's left with as he ties off the last of them. He dabs away the remaining blood, applies antiseptic and dresses the wound.

“OK, good. Do you take anything to help with this?” Jim gently taps his fingers gently on Oswald’s bad leg, “It might help, you know, in general.” Oswald nods. “On the bedside table. I don’t use them often; they have a tendency to put me to sleep.”

Jim reaches over and grabs the small, nondescript bottle and the glass of water sitting next to it. There’s no label and as much as he wants to, he thinks it’s probably best he doesn’t ask what the hell they are, or where they come from. He takes two out and gives them and the water to Oswald, who hesitantly sits up, swallows them down and hands the glass back. Jim notices the remaining water in it is stained red.

“Are you going to tell me who did this?” Jim pushes, but he already knows he's not going to get a response.

“Were you going to tell me what you're doing here so late?” Oswald counters, laying back down as best he can. The both look away in silence. Jim busies himself by clearing up and packing the kit, dumping bloodied towels and spent gauze in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. Someone else can deal with this now.

“Get some sleep.” he mumbles, getting up quietly and grabbing his coat from the chair. When he looks back, a fragile-looking Oswald is passed out cold on the bed.

Jim lets himself out.

********

He walks brusquely home through the heavy snow, crashes hard and dreams of pressing hot, wet kisses into scarred ivory skin. And when he wakes he definitely doesn’t spend an extra five minutes in the shower purging those thoughts until his mind is a clean slate again.

********

It’s been almost a month. Jim hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Oswald. Outwardly he’s thankful, but inside his stomach churns with unwanted concern. He’s gotten surreptitious reports of scant sightings at the club, of course. He's not a detective for nothing after all. Then there was the small matter of the unsolicited note he found on his desk last week. The one he still has stashed in his drawer; a small envelope containing an old-fashioned card with a seasonal picture of a Robin on the front of it. On the back were just two words, handwritten in copperplate script.

_Thank you_.

Otherwise it seems he’s laying low to recover. Probably for the best he thinks, as Harvey approaches his desk looking grim. Well, grimmer than usual.

Jim runs a hand over his face. “Christ, what now?”

Harvey sighs “Bodies. Lots of bodies. Get your ass in gear, this is a doozy.”

********

They pull up at Arkham Bridge around ten in the morning. Ed's already there, looking disgustingly gleeful as usual. There are three bodies laid out on the ground, in the process of being poked, prodded and zipped up in bags.

“What's the story, Nygma? Harvey grumps. “And please, cut the bullshit, OK?”

Ed huffs, but grins nonetheless. “Well, we have four bodies. Oh, they're just hauling up the last one now. Have you guys heard of the _Hangman Paradox_?”

“ _Ed_ ,” Harvey warns. “Stick to the facts.”

Ed coughs and continues. “So, all of them where hung off the bridge by their feet. All were severely beaten around the face, shoulders, back and legs, and all had their throats cut. They bled out over the river. Isn't that just delightful?!”

Harvey ignores his disturbing enthusiasm. “Was it all done here?”

“Not 100% sure yet. Buuuuuut, in my admittedly superior opinion, they were beaten first, then brought here for slaughter. I'm sure the lovely Dr Thompkins will agree with me. However it happened though, they were all certainly _surprised_.”

Harvey just looks at Ed like he's just sprouted an extra head, but Jim stumbles back a step despite himself.

“Y’ok there Jimbo? You look like you seen a ghost.”

Jim wrenches his gaze from the bodies, looks at Harvey with a grimace. “Yeah, I’m fine. Had a late one.” Harvey pats Jim on the back. Hard. “I bet you did, partner. Attaboy! Ed? Let's get some ID on these poor saps. I need breakfast.”

********

It doesn't take too long for Ed to work his peculiar brand of magic. All four men worked for Maroni. Jim stares at the printout of their mugshots, feeling the unease settle in his stomach like lead. He'd stayed at the precinct late, even blowing off a guaranteed dinner-and-sex date with Lee, hoping to allay his fears. But now he has the evidence in his hands it's all too real. He's equal parts furious and disappointed, although being disappointed seems moot and frankly ridiculous at this point. It's nearing 1am, and he knows he should go home, curl up around a bottle of cheap whiskey and deal with this in the morning. But he can't; he has to deal with this now. Whatever the consequences.

********

Jim storms into the club and up to the bar, elbowing the last of the drunken patrons out of his path and trying to ignore the way Oswald lights up like one of his obnoxious neon umbrellas.

“Jim! Old friend, this is a pleasant, if tardy, surprise. What can I do for you? A drink, perhaps? On the house.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well of course, anything-”

“ _Now_ ,” Jim hisses. “In private.”

Jim’s expression is like thunder and Oswald’s face falls for a split-second, before his gathers his composure and puts the smile on full beam once again.

“Yes, yes. This way, please.”

He whispers something to Gabe, and then guides Jim upstairs, limping with practised ease behind. As soon as the door to his room closes, Jim wastes no time in airing his indignation. Reaching into his coat, he pulls the printout from his pocket, unfolds it and shoves it in Oswald’s direction.

“Recognise these four men?”

Oswald barely glances at the faces and shakes his head.

Jim takes long strides from the door, so they’re almost face to face. “No? Are you sure? Well isn’t that convenient? We found them this morning, suspended on ropes from Arkham Bridge by their feet. Faces messed up, throats slit, just _here_.”

Oswald’s eyes go wide and he sucks in a surprised gasp as Jim jabs a finger toward him, pressing it against the thin, raised red scars still fresh on Oswald’s throat. He swallows, hard, and Jim just glares at him.

“I-I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Jim.”

“These are the four men who attacked you. Don’t even try to deny it, I fucking saw them that night!”

Oswald looks away for a moment, eyes closed as though rethinking his strategy. Jim can wait though. He’s got all the time in the world right now. When he returns his gaze, Jim notices he’s got the gall to look genuinely upset.

“L-look,” he stutters, “I-I may have mentioned offhand to a staff member or two that I was... I was disheartened with the way things happened that evening. B-but you have to trust me! I did not kill those men. I don’t have it in me! You know that!” Oswald raises his arms, palms out in supplication. “My hands are clean.”

Jim laughs bitterly, infuriated by everything. He reaches out and grabs Oswald by the collar, shaking him roughly.

“Don’t lie to me!”

Oswald stalls, limp in his grip. His voice cracks in desperation. “I would _never_ lie to you! I’ve never lied to a friend! How could you even think that?!”

“Fucking _Bullshit!_ ” Jim snarls. “You’re no better that the rest of the scumbags out there and you know it. You’ll do anything to worm your way up the food chain, morals be dammed! I should’ve shot you when I had the chance.”

Oswald’s icy blue eyes become watery, and Jim loosens his grasp a little as cold, delicate fingers wrap around his wrists, clinging on for dear life. Jim watches as Oswald’s formally shocked expression morphs into something harder, that steely look he gets when he tries to mask his feelings. Jim lets go, pulls himself away and moves for the door. He can’t take this anymore.

“Well if that’s the way you feel then I suggest you leave immediately, _James_.”

Oswald spits out his name as though it were poison and Jim stops cold, his hand trembling on the door handle. _So that’s how it is_. Something finally snaps in him, shattering into a million pieces, that tangled thread unravelling completely and he can’t control the way he turns, furious, stalking back toward the smaller man like an untamed animal.

“ _No_. No, no, no. You don’t get to do this to me. Not now, not ever.”

Jim bears down on him and Oswald clumsily backs away until he hits a wall, wincing as the back of his head cracks on plaster. He’s hemmed in now, Jim’s hands planted either side of his head and Jim makes sure there’ll be no escape by roughly shoving a knee between Oswald’s legs, pinning him. Jim shifts slightly, deliberately pressing his thigh up, and Oswald chokes on a gasp. Jim is somehow not at all surprised to find him hard as a rock.

They’re nose to nose now, Oswald panting rapidly against Jim’s lips, eyes wide and wild. Jim’s brain is awash with ringing static and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. It’s a terrifying, yet oddly liberating feeling that worryingly, he could really get accustomed to. Bending his head, he whispers low against Oswald’s ear.

“Promise me you weren’t involved.”

He pulls back and fixes Oswald’s gaze; clear-eyed and startlingly honest. “I _promise_ you, Jim. I didn’t kill them.”

Jim nods slowly, seemingly satisfied despite it still not exactly being a straight answer. He drops his hands away from the wall and backs off, and for a moment Oswald thinks the ordeal is over. He opens his mouth to speak again, to say anything at all to smooth things over but Jim lurches forward suddenly, cupping Oswald’s face in his rough hands, tilting his head back and crushing their mouths together. Oswald’s whole body stills in shock, unable to do anything as Jim nips hard at his bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue.

A high-pitched whine erupts from Oswald’s chest as his mind and body finally start communicating, and Jim finds him swiftly kissing back like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, all teeth and tongue and awkwardness. His fingers claw at Jim’s broad shoulders, at his back, and Jim just lets him; lets him struggle with his jacket and shirt, lets him place those cold hands and warm lips over his chest and neck, and just holds him, lets him take control for a precious few minutes.

Jim manages to remove Oswald’s tie and undo all of the buttons his layers have to offer with only one casualty, the sound of it pinging on the hardwood floor before bouncing away. Jim shoves aside the material, exposing Oswald’s paper-white skin, and rocks his thigh up between Oswald’s legs again. Oswald keens and falters, giving Jim the opportunity to lean forward and press his mouth against the scars on his neck, slides lower to the one on his collarbone. The one he stitched himself. Oswald inhales sharply at the feeling, his fingers tight in Jim’s short hair.

Jim sucks hard on cool flesh, inhaling the odd, addictively smoky scent of Oswald's damp skin until his hands eventually reach his belt and clumsily unbuckles it, wrenching down his fly at the same time. Oswald bucks his hips as he slide a hand in, past the waistband of – oh God – silk underwear, and he wraps his palm around Oswald's leaking cock and squeezes. The noise Oswald makes is obscene, and Jim's own throbbing appendage jerks in it's confines. He knows this is about as wrong a decision as he's ever or probably will ever make, but right now he couldn't care less as Oswald whimpers deliciously beneath him.

“ _Jim_ ,” Oswald starts, gasping his name and clutching tight at his waist. “Wait, wait, please. I don't... oh _fuck_ , I don't know what I'm doing.”

_You and me both_ , Jim muses, but it never occurred to him that Oswald might not be as experienced as his persona projects. In any other situation, he'd be stunned, considering. This is definitely not the time though. Instead he makes a decision for both of them. Using his free hand, Jim unzips his own fly, pulling out his aching cock. He manoeuvres Oswald's pants and underwear down enough to press his hips forward and against him, capturing both their cocks in a firm grasp.

“Here, it's fine, OK? Just go with it.”

Oswald shuts his eyes, mouth hanging open on a choked off groan, and Jim kisses him again. The feel of his own cock sliding wetly against another is shocking, and he can't get enough. He starts slow, gauging Oswald's tremulous reactions, but soon picks up the pace, stroking with hard, relentless pressure. This isn't going to last long, both of them too wound up, too delirious. It's hot and filthy and Jim knows he's lost his fucking mind; that carefully crafted thread spooled ungainly on the floor forever.

It’s the desperate little sounds Oswald makes when he comes that tip Jim over the edge, both spilling endlessly over his fist. He presses his forehead against Oswald’s and they moan into each other’s mouths. Jim keeps pumping, wringing them both dry until Oswald’s fingernails dig painful crescents into his skin. He stops, chest heaving and eyes closed and after a few moments feels Oswald’s hand on his wrist, tugging gently.

Jim opens his eyes and takes in Oswald’s devilish little smirk, the high flush on his cheeks and he can’t help but groan as Oswald lifts Jim’s hand to his lips and begins licking their combined release from his fingers. Jim’s spent cock twitches at the sight, and the feel of Oswald’s mouth and tongue wrapping around each digit in turn and sucking has him whispering obscenities into the heated air between them.

“ _Jesus_ , Oswald... I thought you didn't know what you were doing?”

“I don't. First time for everything though, right?” He shrugs, a genuine smile on his face, and Jim's heart sinks. He tries to ignore the feeling by kissing Oswald again, lapping their taste out of his mouth. It's a good distraction, but ultimately doesn't help Jim's post-orgasm regret. He pulls away and Oswald makes a disappointed noise.

“Stay.” Oswald pleads, reaching out and placing a hand on Jim's arm.

“You and I both know that's a bad idea.”

“We won't be disturbed, I made sure of it.”

Jim is taken aback. “Wait...You mean, you _knew_ this was going to happen?!”

“I didn't know. I hoped... I mean, I just... Please Jim, stay.”

Jim finds himself agreeing, despite the rational part of his brain screaming at him to get as far away as he possibly can; that this is, by far, the most monumental error he could ever make. But a good sleep in a warm, wide bed should clear his head, and it's too late and too cold to leave. That's what he tells himself. It's all fine. It's absolutely fucking fine.

“Wonderful!” Oswald claps. “Make yourself at home. I'm just going to take a shower. Please help yourself to a drink. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Jim watches Oswald limp off toward the bathroom, dishevelled and laughing to himself.

Jim pours himself the biggest glass of whiskey he can manage and sets himself down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. He doesn't think about what comes next. He doesn't think of anything at all. For the first time in his life, his mind is entirely quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm like that Dos Equis guy. I don't always write, but when I do it's in seven year bursts and because of encouraging friends, apparently. Two in particular who shall remain nameless. I hope it's not as disappointing as I think, and there will probably be a coda to this as well because I can't end it like that and not be an horrendous tease. Apologies for occasional British spelling, I can't help it.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim watches the flames dance in the hearth, idly sipping his whiskey. Oswald certainly doesn’t skimp on the good stuff, which is more than can be said for Jim himself. He can hear the water running in the bathroom, and the warm burn of the alcohol is making him bold enough to even contemplate opening that door and joining Oswald. But he won’t. What he needs right now is more drink.

Getting up, he heads back to the cabinet, bending down on the way to scoop up his discarded shirt and jacket from where they landed, throwing them over the back of a chair. He pours himself another glass and takes a large swig.

_What am I doing?_

He doesn’t get the chance to answer his own question as the door to the bathroom quietly clicks open and Oswald hobbles out wearing only a long towel, slung low around his hips. He’s swept his damp black hair completely off his forehead and he virtually looks like a different person. Without the fancy clothes and cocky confidence he’s far less threatening; innocent, _almost_. Skin flushed pink from the shower, a few of the scars on his torso and arms stand out in bold relief, like inverse tattoos. There’s a rash of freckles across the bridge of Oswald’s nose he’s never really noticed before, too.

“Did you want to… ?” Oswald gestures back to the bathroom.

Jim contemplates the offer, but declines, “Nah, I’m good. I just want to get some shut-eye. S’been a long day.”

Oswald nods, says nothing, just unhooks the towel and lets it drop to the floor. Jim swallows hard, eyes wide as he tracks his limping naked form across the room to the bed. There are still faded yellowing bruises across his back and thighs and he can clearly see now how the badly set bones in his right leg around the knee twist his foot out. He can’t imagine many people have seen it, let alone been shown it in such a brazen fashion, but maybe he doesn’t care. Then again, maybe he cares enough to show Jim.

The thought makes Jim’s chest tight, and he drags his gaze away as Oswald switches off the lights, leaving only the glow of the fire to light the room. As he clambers awkwardly into bed, Jim drains his glass in one go, letting the creeping heat loosen his chest. He starts taking off the rest of his clothes, opting to leave his underwear on. For now.

When he gets to the bed, he finds Oswald right in the centre of it. “Don’t you have a side?” Jim asks.

“Uh, no? I… I’ve never really thought about it before. I always sleep in the middle.”

Jim bites his tongue at that. Instead he gestures to the left. “Yeah well, shift up. This bed is big enough for three. And no, that’s not an invitation for anyone else. Unless… ”

Oswald looks horrified, and Jim actually laughs out loud before stopping himself, attributing it to the large amount of alcohol he’s imbibed tonight. “ _Joke_ , Oswald. It’s a joke.”

Oswald does as he’s told and moves over, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Jim climbs in after him and finds it to be extremely comfortable and surprisingly warm. He’s very soon falling asleep when he feels Oswald roll over and press against his side, a cool palm landing on Jim’s chest just over his heart. Jim stays silent, but reaches round and pulls Oswald closer to him, letting him rest his head against his shoulder and leech a little heat from his considerably warmer body. He plants a soft kiss into charcoal hair that smells of citrus and sandalwood, and it only takes a few minutes after that for them both to fall into a deep slumber.

********

It’s sometime around dawn that Jim finds himself being dragged slowly and reluctantly out of his sleep. He feels hot and restless, and there are bright colours dancing behind his closed eyelids. Blindly, he gropes at the space next to him in the bed and comes up empty. It’s only a few moments before realises why.

Oswald is under the covers between his spread thighs, mouthing at his half-hard, clothed cock and huffing hot breaths through the fabric. Jim groans, disoriented from sleep and throws an arm across his eyes, half enjoying the sensation and half wanting it to stop lest it be over all too soon. Oswald’s cold hands are on his hips, fingers gently teasing at the waistband of Jim’s tight briefs, and Jim’s hips buck when he feels Oswald’s tongue lap at the glistening tip of his cock, exposed now above the elastic. He would swear he heard Oswald chuckle to himself at his reaction.

 _Christ_ , Jim really wants to see what’s going on. He pulls his arm away and blinks open his eyes. The room is bathed both in the cold blue light of a winter morning and the faint orange glow of the fireplace, but there’s more than enough to give him a good view. He reaches down and pulls back the covers just as Oswald yanks down his underwear far enough to be able to take the head of his cock into his warm, wet mouth; swirling his tongue around it, feeling it throb. Jim gasps loudly and grasps the back of Oswald’s neck, strong fingers holding firm in his messy hair as Oswald manages to sink down a little further, humming contentedly as he does so. _Fuck_ this has to stop, so Jim grabs him by the arms and hauls him up his body so they’re face to face.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you have to give me some warning.”

Oswald gives him a pursed-lipped, petulant look. “I was enjoying it!”

“Yes, and so was I. That was the problem.”

“But you taste _really_ good, Jim.” Oswald whispers with the biggest goading smirk he can manage, punctuating his words by rubbing his own substantial erection against Jim’s hipbone.

Jim growls lowly, sparks of pure unadulterated lust blurring his vision and skittering down his spine and before he even realises what he’s doing, he’s roughly rolling them over so Oswald is flat on his back. Oswald yelps in surprise as Jim straddles him, pins his arms to the bed and grinds his hips repeatedly into Oswald’s, cock against cock. He still can’t believe how good that feels, but he’s got to get his underwear off _right the fuck now_. Reluctantly, he pulls away for a few moments, leaving Oswald shell-shocked and panting in the sheets. Jim wrenches them off, tosses them out of view and gets back into position.

Oswald wraps his hands around Jim’s muscled biceps and spreads his thighs more to give Jim better access as he continues to roll his hips. Oswald keens loudly and Jim shuts him up with a kiss; slow and wet and deep. It feels so right that all Jim wants to do is make Oswald scream until he loses his voice for a week. Oswald writhes against him, whimpering against his lips and Jim moves away from his mouth, kissing along his jaw and throat, over his scars and further still, sucking his own bruises into the milky skin he’s dreamed of so many times before.

Oswald mewls, hands stroking Jim’s sides and Jim moves back up, kissing his lips softly, completely lost in the moment and unaware of what Oswald’s about to say to him.

“Jim, _Jim_ , stop. I ca- wait, listen. I need… I need to feel you.”

Jim grazes his teeth against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, smiling, “This isn’t enough?”

“No! I mean… yes, but… Oh God Jim, I want you to, to… Don’t m-make me say it out loud.”

“Say what, exactly?” He’s biting into the soft flesh of his shoulder now, sucking it into his mouth, and Oswald stills his head with his hands. He speaks so quietly between short breaths Jim doesn’t register at first.

“I want you… _to fuck me_.”

Jim seizes up, heat spreading out from the back of his head, across his cheeks, down his neck and into his chest. He’d tried it once with Barbara, but they were both pretty drunk and he didn’t get too far before she’d passed out in a stupor. He’d thought it prudent not to continue, being a gentleman of course, and after that they’d never spoken about it again. But this time… This time it’s all different. Jim takes a deep breath and nods against Oswald’s clammy skin.

“Yeah… yeah, okay but, how… have you got anything? I mean-”

“Check that drawer. This was Fish’s place before, remember? There are still… things in there.”

That’s something Jim would rather not picture right now. He shakes his head a little as if it will help clear his thoughts, leans over and pulls open the drawer. He gropes around impatiently and comes up with a bottle of lube, thank God. He’s not going to mention to Oswald the fact he definitely felt handcuffs in there, among other things.

Jim grabs a hefty pillow, rolls Oswald carefully on his side and places it under his hips. He rolls him back onto it, parting his thighs and giving him room to work with. Uncapping the lube, he coats his fingers and gently probes the crease of his ass. Oswald’s eyes are closed, breathing steadily as Jim’s index finger insistently presses against the tight ring of muscle, slowly working on opening it. Jim leans down, licks a long stripe up Oswald’s cock from base to tip with the flat of his tongue and Oswald whimpers pathetically at the feeling; a futile buck of the hips held down by a strong hand. His own hands scrabble at the sheets before one reaches out to get traction in Jim’s short hair. A roll of the tongue against the edge of Oswald’s cock head has him gasping, and Jim finally breaches the muscle with his slick finger, easily sliding in to the first knuckle.

Oswald wails, mouth open as Jim slides his finger in and out while clumsily sucking and licking his leaking cock. It’s glorious the way he’s so relaxed now and it doesn’t take long before a second finger is easily introduced. It’s difficult to block out the sounds Oswald is making, plus the fact Oswald is grasping at his hair, but Jim carries on valiantly, sucking and stretching at the same time. He’s proud of himself for going so slowly, but he wants in on the action, scrotum tight and cock aching. He takes the chance and glances up; Oswald’s cheeks are flushed, teeth pressing down against his lower lip to try and suppress the majority of his uncontrollable moans. Jim pulls his mouth off his cock, crawls up Oswald’s body as best he can with three fingers now inside him, and presses a hot, wet kisses against bitten lips.

“Please, I need… _Fuck_ , please!” There’s almost no colour in Oswald’s pupils any more. They are black and breathtaking.

“I know, I know. Shhhh, it’s okay, I got you. Just relax.”

Jim crooks all three fingers and Oswald’s voice cracks against the walls of the room. It’s enough to make him withdraw his eager digits and reposition himself between Oswald’s legs. One hand grabs the lube, the other gathers up the ankle of his good leg, pushing it up into the air and hooking it around his shoulder. With the pillow elevating Oswald’s slick, stretched ass, Jim applies a generous amount of lube to his own painfully hard cock. He forces himself to look away as he lines up and presses inside, the slight pop of muscle as he slides in almost too much to bear. Oswald is so tight, and it takes all of his strength not to come in that confined space immediately.

Thankfully, Oswald is silent for a moment, unable to process the fullness he feels as Jim slips in all the way home. The tip of Jim’s cock rubs against his prostate so perfectly that Oswald can’t do anything but press his head back against the mattress, sucking in cool air like a fish out of water. Jim leans forward, hands kneading hips and Oswald shamelessly moans as Jim draws back as slowly as he can until the head of his cock is stretching Oswald’s hole wide. Oswald reaches out, clawing at Jim’s shaking arms in desperation and Jim looks down and watches Oswald’s cock twitch.

“Y’okay?” Jim pants with the restraint and he gets a violent nod in response, “Y-yes, f… fuck me, _Christ Jim_ , fuck me!”

Oswald slurs his words and Jim can’t deny him, grunting as he shoves his hips forward fully and back again, the wet sound of it obscene under the harsh, broken noises Oswald is making. He continues to thrust, building up a steady, punishing rhythm. Readjusting position, Jim leans forward as far as he can, folding Oswald over as he captures his open mouth, the kiss all tongues and teeth and gasps, one hand by his head and the other wrapped tightly around Oswald’s thigh. Oswald’s bad leg is splayed crookedly across the sheets, toes curling, hands and fingers scratching at Jim’s hips as he tries to pull him closer, dying for some friction against his dripping cock. He gets what he wants, briefly, managing to arch up enough to make contact with taut stomach muscles.

They can’t keep this up much longer, Oswald’s falling apart at the seams underneath him, and they’re both a sweaty, sticky mess but Jim needs one more thing from him first. Dragging himself away from his mouth, he pants filthily in his ear on a particularly vicious thrust, holding it there and grinding his hips up into Oswald’s willing body.

“Touch yourself, Oswald. I need you to come, okay? Need to feel you come on my cock.”

Oswald squeezes his eyes closed, frantically shaking his head, voice scratched to all hell. “ _Nnnn_ , I c-can’t, ahh! It’s too much, I can’t, _please!_ ”

“Yes you can, c’mon. For me, do it for me.”

It takes very little persuasion in the end. Oswald grips himself firmly, stroking just a few times with a slippery palm until his whole body quivers, eyes rolling back into his head. He grabs a handful of Jim’s ass with his free hand, pulling him in impossibly closer and Jim continues to grind into him. Oswald tenses up like a rubber band, snaps, and comes copiously across his pale stomach, vulnerable little cries accompanying each spasm and Jim can’t hold back against the sounds and the feeling of hot muscle pulsing around his length. He bows his head, cursing loudly, and fucks through the sensation, hips stuttering uncontrollably with his own release and he only stops pumping his hips when he feels it start leaking out of Oswald’s abused hole.

Jim carefully pulls out and collapses onto the bed, trying to be mindful of Oswald’s smaller frame and the mess they’ve made, but not being successful. Not that Oswald seems to notice though, he’s quite out of it at the moment. Jim can feel his heart hammering through his chest against his own, and they lay there for long minutes, trying to remember how to breathe again.

Oswald finally stirs, pulling Jim close and kissing him. It’s soft and gentle, everything Oswald usually isn’t and it makes Jim feel a little strange. He’s not really one for post-sex make-out sessions; he usually falls asleep, but in this instance, he has to get up. Worse, he has to go to work.

“You know I have to go, right?” Jim whispers into Oswald’s sweaty hair.

“I know,” is the quiet response.

“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“No! I’ve never felt better, Jim. Just a little overwhelmed. Go, I’ll be fine right here.” Oswald grins against Jim’s neck, and Jim relaxes again. He’s got spare clothes at the Precinct; it’s closer than going home, and he can shower there too. He has to get out of here before anyone sees him. Today is going to be a very long day.

********

It’s mid-morning, and Oswald hobbles down the stairs much more stiffly than usual, revelling in his new collection of aches and pains and the oddly welcome soreness between his legs. He’s grinning to himself like a loon when Gabe greets him at the bar.

“Y’okay, Boss? You look like you’ve been at the happy pills.”

“I’m well Gabriel my friend, very well indeed; couldn’t be better in fact,” Oswald exclaims, although he can’t hide the wince as he tries to sit down.

“If it’s anything to do with what I heard when I got in this morning, I don’t think I want to know… ”

Oswald continues to look unashamedly amused for a few moments until a thought occurs to him and his face falls. “For God’s sake don’t let my mother find out. She’ll probably kill us all.”

“You’re the boss, Boss.” Gabe says, unhelpfully.

Oswald picks at a cocktail napkin on the bar, a little more seriousness in his tone. “Now, not that I’m one for paranoia of course, but I trust that you were smart enough not to leave anything… _incriminating_ at the bridge, correct?”

“You know me, not a thing. Just nice clean kills as you requested.”

Oswald steeples his hands together in contemplation. “Excellent. It is a shame though, I’ll miss the fun I had beating the shit out of those obsequious meat-bags. They did make for exquisite stress relief.”

Gabe nods quietly in understanding.

“But if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to elsewhere today. I’ll be back a little later.”

Gabe gives him a look. “You sure you don’t want me to come with?”

“Its fine, I’ll be perfectly safe. I need you to keep a watchful eye over this place,” he waves him off dismissively.

Oswald makes his way out of the club; _his_ club, steps gingerly onto the snowy Gotham side street, watching the snowflakes fall delicately from the blanket of grey sky, and quietly whispers to himself.

“Hasn’t this all woven together perfectly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it appears I wrote a shameful amount of porn, for which I can only apologise. :)
> 
> There's a few lines in there that hint at a sequel, so I may do one. I have a few evil ideas!


End file.
